


a false twist of fate

by stargirls



Series: the night shift [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, and more of north being the best wingman ever, or the worst. it depends on your point of view tbh, what's up everybody we're back with the good gay shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 10:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15265440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargirls/pseuds/stargirls
Summary: It's been three days since Markus Manfred met the gorgeous detective from the DPD. Love hasn't exactly been the first thing on his mind since, but when his three best friends show up drunk on his doorstep—with a very confused Connor Anderson in tow—Markus has a feeling that destiny might just be on his side.





	a false twist of fate

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a whole, what, three days? and i'm already back on my rk1000 bullshit. this is what i'm doing with my life now, and honestly, i'm pretty okay with that.
> 
> the vast majority of the jericrew's shenanigans and their flat out hilarious dialogue is courtesy of my friend [beckett](buckettkun.tumblr.com), who is officially one of the coolest and most brilliant people i know. thanks for the feelings _and_ the comedy gold!
> 
> anyway, please take a moment to channel some of your unfiltered hatred at david cage, and then feel free to carry on. enjoy!

“ _Front door,_ ” says a woman’s soothing voice, and Markus jerks awake.

Several paintbrushes drop to the floor. He stirs, fumbling for the wall he’d been leaning on, and leaves tiny, colorful fingerprints in the plaster. The room comes to life at his sudden movement—the lights lift, a gentle instrumental comes overhead, and the paint mixer’s low hum starts up again in the corner. The canvas in front of him is a vibrant blur of reds and blues, and it takes Markus a few seconds to realize it’s not just his eyes adjusting. He shifts blearily off his stool, pads over to the sink, and winces at the shock of cold against his skin as the water begins to fade the streaks of paint on his fingers.

Another soft chime resonates through the room. “ _Front door._ ”

“Who’s there?” says Markus.

“ _From your personal identification database: Joshua Pace, North Durand, and Simon Blythe. From the Detroit Facial Recognition database: Connor Anderson._ ”

The words filter through Markus’s sleep-muddled brain and to the concrete floor of the atelier. He finishes washing up and takes a paint-stained cloth off the rack, shaking off a few wayward water droplets, and freezes. As if he’s forgotten how to move altogether.

It’s a little embarrassing, actually.

“Detective Anderson?” he says. The man with the heartbreaker eyes and the voice that makes him weak in the knees? The man who, while staying professional as he could be, melted Markus’s entire world with his small talk and smaller smiles? The man who had gone along with North’s incessant wingmanning without missing a beat? The man whose name Markus had completely forgotten to ask because he was too busy having an unfiltered crisis?

“ _Affirmative,_ ” says Markus’s home system, heartlessly, because it cares nothing for him or any other hopeless romantic.

Shit.

It hasn’t even been a week—three days, to be exact, none of which Markus has had to himself. He won’t complain about being held up with photoshoots and interviews and meetings with high-profile commissioners, but when they start to encroach on his real work, it’s easy for his energy to wear thin. His friends are well accustomed to him disappearing for a few days and resurfacing with a new appearance in some cultural magazine; they’ve known him long enough to understand how life in the public eye works. A gorgeous police detective, on the other hand, has no reason to know who he is or that his schedule doesn’t allow for a moment to breathe.

Here is Markus, with his first free evening in seventy-two straight hours, and texting the man hadn’t even come to mind.

Shit, shit, _shit_.

He likes to think of himself as fairly put together as they come. Composure is practically his public responsibility at this point—people expect young activists to be angry and loud, and it’s not entirely up to him to subvert that expectation, but he does his best to contribute. Markus has gotten used to agonizing over his every word. _Fight_ is different from _persist_ ; _tolerance_ has a separate meaning than _acceptance_. The difference between _hi_ and _hello_ in an opening text is as wide as a chasm.

He can practically _hear_ North’s voice next to his ear. _Excuses, excuses._ She’d gotten him the number of the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, which Markus had promptly forgotten to text, and now said beautiful man is standing on his front porch, probably looking as beautiful as ever. Along with his three best friends, mind. That’s more than a little bit concerning.

Markus can’t decide if this is a universal punishment or a reward. “ _Front door,_ ” his home system drones, sounding slightly chastising, and he gives himself a shake and sets the cloth in his hands aside. However crowded his schedule gets from here on out, he’s sure there will be time for overthinking later.

The house’s motion sensors light his way as he cuts a path through the dining room and heads for the atrium. Carl’s grandfather clock, standing elegantly in the corner, informs him that it’s nearing ten-thirty, which doesn’t make him feel any better about the fact that his three closest friends are on his doorstep. The chandelier in the foyer comes to life as soon as Markus sets foot over the threshold. He stops to check his reflection in the hallway mirror and notes the flecks of paint staining his collarbone, the blue that streaks his forearm, the hint of pink smeared across his thumb. It’s inevitable, he decides; color just clings to his heels and follows him wherever he goes.

Ah, well. So much for composure.

He opens the door, and North meets him with an enthusiastic gasp, followed by a blinding grin. “ _Markus_!” she sings, hanging off the arm of her baffled companion. “We’re here, and we brought the pretty cop with us!”

Detective Anderson, Markus thinks, is even more stunning when he’s caught off-guard. He looks hesitantly to North with eyes turned russet by the light overhead, coat sleeve rumpled by her gripping fingers, hair just noticeably disheveled in the late-night breeze. Markus wants to run his fingers through it and correct the displaced strands. He imagines Connor’s hair would be very soft.

 _Connor_. He replaces _Detective Anderson_ in his internal monologue without thinking. It’s a beautiful name, like he is; assertive, and it reminds Markus of blue. Gentle sky-cerulean and ocean-deep navy and a glimmering, pulsing nightclub turquoise.

“I’m very sorry about this,” is all Connor can manage, as North pulls him past Markus and into the entrance hall. Simon is at her heels, followed by Josh, who stalls at the challenge of the threshold, then puts an unsteady hand on the doorframe and pulls himself through. Markus closes the door behind them and takes a breath before he turns around. What meets him are his three incredibly drunk friends, red in the face and grinning like they’ve just cured world hunger, and Connor—supporting a wobbly North, still in his work clothes, staring a little desperately back at Markus as he fidgets with the rumpled collar of his coat.

It’s kind of hot.

Markus isn’t thinking about that.

“Hi,” he says, slowly. “Does someone want to explain to me what’s going on here?”

Connor opens his mouth like he wants to respond, but North beats him to it. “Simon and Josh and I got _drunk_ ,” she crows, still smiling from ear to ear. “And—and we were walking home, and Josh said I couldn’t do my finger thing—you know the one?” She holds up a hand and distorts her finger, popping it forward from the joint. Connor’s brow lifts with mild alarm, and, dammit, that’s beautiful, too. “So I did, and then I dared him to climb the lampost outside, so he did. And then we were passing by this—this…”

“Playground,” Simon supplies, and looks unreasonably proud of himself.

“ _Fuck_ yeah, it was,” says North, and high-fives him. “So Josh said I couldn’t do the monkey bars on the playground, right? So I was like—I was like, fuck you, I can, and then I got stuck.”

She giggles and claps a hand over her mouth. “So then these two are trying to get me down, and they—they _really_ sucked at it, don’t tell them. And then who do we see passing by but Detective… Anderson!” North pats Connor’s breast and grins widely at Markus. “He helped me out, because he’s _super_ considerate, right? And I asked him to walk us home, because, y’know, I thought there might be _someone_ here who wants to see him.”

Simon digs an elbow into her ribs, and she yelps in protest. “North!” he says, in a stage-whisper. “ _Shh_! It’s a _secret_!”

North’s eyes go wide. “Oh, shit,” she mumbles, and then, only slightly quieter, “I thought there might be someone… _here_ … who wants to see him. Y’know?”

Connor looks as if he’s about ready to melt into the floor, and at this point, Markus isn’t opposed to joining him. “I just wanted to get them home safe,” he says, and in spite of everything, his voice is crisp and clear and sends a thrill down Markus’s spine. How anyone can sound so under control with a wasted North attached to their elbow is beyond him, but it just adds evidence to Markus’s theory that somehow, Connor must be superhuman. “I’m sorry if we woke you.”

 _No,_ Markus wants to say; _it was no trouble, I was already up,_ but Simon beats him to the punch. “Don’t apologize,” he drawls. “Markus wanted to see you! Didn’t you, Markus?” He twists his expression in an extremely conspicuous wink. “Right?”

“ _Shh_ , dude, seriously, I got this.” North flaps her hand in his general direction and turns back to Connor. “Hey. Detective Connor. Anderson. Whatever. Isn’t Markus handsome? Isn’t he really hot? Look at this man.” She presses her cheek to Connor’s and gestures vaguely to Markus, who thinks he might actually be sinking into the floor now. “ _Look_ at him. Would you bang him? Yes, or—or double yes?”

The tips of Connor’s ears are a bright, lovely red, and Markus is sure he’s blushing as well, although his isn’t nearly as visible. “Well, I—”

North stiffens and pulls away. She looks almost as offended as she is when people assume she’s straight, except Markus has a feeling this interaction isn’t going to end in a fight. “Why the hell not?” she says, expression contorting in a clumsy scowl. “Huh? You’re not gonna find a better spe—a better specimen of man, Connor! Do you think you’re too good for him? Do you—” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial volume. “Do you wanna _fight_ me?”

“ _Ohhh_!” Josh and Simon chorus, as one. “Fight him, North!”

“Please, God, do not,” says Markus. At this point he’d really like nothing more than to go to sleep—although, come to think of it, kissing the life out of the pretty detective in his foyer doesn’t sound so bad. “Look, let’s just… let’s just get you three upstairs, okay? Connor, would you be willing to lend me a hand?”

Connor nods immediately, looking all too relieved at the prospect of freedom. He gently guides North’s arm over his shoulder and she mumbles in protest, head lolling as they start to make their way towards the stairs. Markus trusts Josh not to attempt anything too disastrous if they leave him unattended, so he takes Simon, who drags his feet when Markus tries to ease them forward.

“Hey,” he mumbles, into Markus’s arm. “You better not screw this up, mkay?”

Ahead of them, Connor and North are in the home stretch. ”What do you mean?”

“ _This_ ,” says Simon, slowly, like it’s obvious. Maybe it is—Markus is too busy trying not to waver and fall under his weight. “We brought a pretty guy to your doorstep, and he likes you. Like, a lot. So don’t screw it up, okay?”

Not for the first time, Markus finds himself at a complete loss for a reply. He focuses on getting them to the top of the staircase, because that, thankfully, does not require a lot of higher brain functions. The other two are already there, and although he’s clearly trying to look unaffected, Connor is slightly pink in the face, and his lips are parted as he catches his breath. The sight does things to Markus’s mind that almost make him trip up the stairs.

Almost. Thankfully, he’s not entirely the disaster bisexual that North insists he is.

Eventually they make it there as well, and Markus has barely made it a few steps from the railing when Simon’s weight increases suddenly and dramatically against him. He sputters with surprise and alarm and stumbles forward, fumbling for a hold. Fortunately, there’s something sturdy right in front of him. Unfortunately, that something sturdy happens to be Connor. They flail and wobble as one, and Connor manages to stop them short with a heel in the carpet. He has tiny moles, Markus notes, that dot his skin like stars.

Then he realizes exactly how close they are, and that no matter how gay you might be for someone, it’s generally considered a social faux pas to grip them by the shoulders and stare them intently in the eyes.

“I’m—really sorry,” he says, and then, “Simon, don’t _push_ me!”

“I didn’t,” Simon drones, leaning back against the railing. “I just lost all control of my voluntary movement for a second. Oops.”

His lips curl in a tiny, self-satisfied smirk as Markus disentangles himself from Connor and tries to will his body temperature back to normal. Note to self, he thinks: sober Simon has an alter ego that would put a supervillain to shame. The blush across his neck only just starts to recede as he traipses back down the stairs, leaving Connor with North and Simon, and, well, hindsight isn’t exactly 20/20 on that one. Not much Markus can do about it now.

He reaches the bottom and slings Josh’s arm around his shoulder—and Josh is _absurdly_ heavy. His friend has a fair amount of muscle, Markus knows, because someone has to carry North away from the hecklers before she can get to them, but Josh’s sudden deadweight has him struggling. “Hey,” he wheezes. “Do you mind—uh—”

“Can’t,” Josh mumbles, and drags his feet against the tile. Markus grits his teeth and looks up at the landing, where North and Simon are watching with unadulterated delight on their faces. This is on purpose, he thinks. His three closest friends in the world are traitors and they’re not even trying to hide it.

He swallows his pride and his sanity’s numerous objections, and says, “Hey, Connor? Could you, uh… could you come down here and help me with him?”

A muffled affirmative comes from somewhere behind Simon, and then Connor reappears, taking the stairs two at a time. He comes off the bottom stair with a little bounce to his step, and Markus actually bites his lip, because it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. He only realizes he’s done so when he spots Josh grinning in his peripheral, and decides immediately that as soon as they have a moment to themselves, he’s sitting all three of them down and having a serious talk about loyalty. And wingmanning—what is and isn’t acceptable, for one.

Connor takes Josh’s other arm and threads his around, resting atop Markus’s forearm. It’s practical, nothing more, but that doesn’t keep Markus’s heart from stuttering in his chest.

“Is that okay?” he says, and Markus just nods, because he’d rather his voice not crack like a teenager’s.

They take the stairs painstakingly slowly, and although Josh seems to have regained a suspicious amount of mobility, coordinating three people’s movement is still a difficult affair. Markus is keeping his eyes trained ahead, trying not to think about his proximity to the gorgeous detective next to him, when Connor says, “How did you know my name?”

He gives a start and peers over Josh’s shoulders. “What?”

“My name,” Connor repeats. “I never gave it to you.”

Shit, shit, shit, _shit_. “The house has a facial recognition system,” says Markus, like it’s a valid explanation. “Sorry,” he adds. “That was probably really weird.”

Connor blinks owlishly. If it were possible for a loading wheel to appear next to someone, that’s exactly what would be hovering around his head. “It wasn’t weird,” he says, eventually, with a small, subtle smile that almost costs Markus his balance. “I didn’t need to mention it.”

Their conversation drops off into silence as they navigate the climb, and Markus decides that now is as good a time as any. “By the way,” he says, in a valiant attempt to speak clearly over his dry tongue. “I totally forgot to text you. It’s been an insane three days, and that’s… that’s a lousy excuse. But I really did want to text. I’m sorry that I didn’t get to it sooner.”

The smile lingers on Connor’s lips a second longer before they make it to the top of the staircase. “It was all very abrupt,” he says, and that’s an understatement if Markus has ever heard one. “But I’m glad, Markus. It would have been… regrettable if we’d never spoken again.”

Markus’s heart twinges happily in his chest. He bites back the enormous smile fighting its way across his face and turns to North, Simon, and Josh, all of whom are watching completely without shame. North nudges Simon and mouths _sparks_ , wiggling her fingers in the air. She shoots Markus a grin and another wink and despite the fact that Connor is standing right there, Markus comes dangerously close to smiling back.

Instead, he says, “You three need to get to bed.”

North’s expression drops. “What? No! It’s sleepover time, Markus! We can even do some sleepover games. Like Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

“Or Spin the Bottle,” says Simon.

“Truth or Dare,” Josh slurs from the railing.

“Ooh, _yes_.” She looks pointedly back at Markus. “Please?”

“You know where the bedrooms are,” says Markus, drily.

She sticks her tongue out at him, then seems to have second thoughts and looks back at Josh and Simon. “Okay,” she says. “That actually isn’t a bad idea. Y’know—you boys, we should probably give these boys some _alone time_ , right?”

Josh nods knowingly, and Simon’s brow furrows slightly in confusion before it dawns on him. “ _Right_ ,” he says, as if he’s just had some grand revelation. They’re certainly drunk enough for that to be the case. “Right, right… alone time.”

“Right! So let’s go.” North slings an arm around each of her friends and pushes them towards the mouth of the hallway. She twists and throws one last wink in Markus’s direction, ignoring the fact that she’s well within Connor’s line of sight, and then they vanish behind the woodwork. Markus’s first thought is a fervent hope that they don’t accidentally break anything that he can’t replace.

His second thought is that he’s alone, with Connor.

First things first.

“So,” he says. “I am so, _so_ sorry about them.”

Connor’s tiny, sympathetic smile returns. “I don’t mind it,” he says, and actually sounds like he doesn’t. There’s a sincerity to him that Markus sees rarely in other people. “They seem like good people.”

“They’re even better when they’re sober,” Markus quips, and Connor snickers. It’s quiet and completely unexpected, and he almost immediately looks down, away from Markus, fighting the smirk that tugs at his lips. Like everything else he does, it’s beautiful.

“Sorry.”

Markus blinks. “No, don’t… don’t apologize. That was sweet.” And then, because he’s feeling bold, he adds, “You should do that more often.”

Connor’s eyes flick to his. The light catches in his dark hair and streaks it with gold, and not for the first time, Markus has to remind himself not to stare. It’s hard when everything about him looks so effortless; like this workplace-polish is all part of his natural appearance. As if he wakes up every morning with perfectly coiffed hair and manicured fingernails and his soft, just-after-coffee voice that sends heat flaring across Markus’s neck. Even now, the way he tugs at his sleeve cuffs to straighten out the wrinkles looks like an afterthought.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t try to hide his smile anymore. And maybe, Markus thinks, for him, that’s saying more than he knows.

They stand against the railing in amicable silence for a little while longer, listening to the clock behind them tick towards eleven and watching the trees outside shudder in the breeze. It’s a quiet night and that’s not anything novel, but the fact that Markus actually has a moment to appreciate it most certainly is.

“Were you really walking home?” he says. There’s a small, incredibly selfish part of him that wonders if that hadn’t been the truth—if Connor had really been on his way to see him, despite the fact that Markus never shared his address. It’s the kind of wishful thinking North would make fun of him for, and exactly the sort that reminds Markus exactly how screwed he is. He’s trying his best not to think about it.

But Connor nods. “My bus broke down,” he says, and he says it so matter-of-factly, as if public transportation issues aren’t the bane of every commuter’s existence. “It was an hour until the next one would come along, so I decided to walk.”

“How far away are you?”

“On foot, about an hour,” he says, and Markus almost questions his logic, but he can practically hear North shushing him from down the hall. “It’s not a particularly difficult trip.”

When he trails off, one of history’s most brash, forward ideas is sticking in Markus’s brain. He doesn’t know if his friends would be cheering him on or begging him to pump the brakes, and at this point, he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. This evening has been more confusing than it has any right to be. But he swallows his doubts, because doing that has been a pretty safe bet thus far, and says, “It’s late. You shouldn’t have to walk an hour. Why don’t you stay over? I mean, you’ve done so much for them—” he gestures vaguely at the hall— “and I really owe you one. So if you wanted to… stay here for the night, I’d be fine with that.”

Connor goes quiet. It seems to be his default setting when he’s contemplative, Markus has noticed. He considers his words in a way that feels very familiar and yet completely different all at once.

“I’ll need to contact Hank,” he says, finally. “My legal guardian. But if it’s no trouble—”

“It’s not, I promise. As long as you’re comfortable with it.” So much for not sounding like a teenager. Markus hasn’t felt this desperate to please since his first public speech. He’s been told his efforts don’t show, even though to him, they’re about as obvious as a flashing sign hanging over his head. He’s never needed to try to show compassion or enthusiasm for the things he cares about, but put him next to a beautiful man with a breathtaking smile, and suddenly he’s tripping over the considerations that usually come so easily to him. It makes next to no sense.

 _We call that being in love,_ his father would say. Markus doesn’t dare look that far ahead, but he will admit that he can’t remember the last time he’s felt this way about someone.

It’s not nothing that when he’d taken the bus home with North that night, he hadn’t been able to absorb a word she’d said, because he was too busy thinking about the way Detective Anderson’s eyes crinkled at the edges. It’s not nothing that he’d fallen asleep composing the first line of his _hello_ text. It’s not nothing that the instant he’d made Connor laugh, he had wanted to do it again, and then again just for the hell of it.

It’s not nothing that in that moment, he wants to see Connor in the early morning, hair mussed and eyes soft with sleep, rousing in Markus’s arms.

The grandfather clock downstairs strikes eleven as Connor dials his home number in the foyer. He gets a voicemail and leaves a polite, to-the-point message for someone named _Hank_ , who Markus suspects is not Connor’s actual father but someone a little more complicated than that. They have that in common. He follows Markus to the spare room that's left, which— _very_ coincidentally, Markus is sure—is the one with the queen-sized bed and the garden view. Connor walks to the window and peers through, mesmerized. He stands there wordlessly as Markus slips out the door and makes a beeline for his bedroom, snagging a few spare linens along the way. He digs through his closet and finds a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from one of the previous year’s rallies; it says _LOVE WITHOUT FEAR_ in block letters. It figures that tonight, of all nights, he’d be schooled by an inanimate object.

When he gets back to the room, Connor is still lingering at the window. Markus almost doesn’t want to interrupt him. He clears his throat gently, and Connor turns, silhouetted against the glass as if the universe itself is framing him. Markus has to remind himself for the thousandth time that night that it’s not polite to stare, regardless of how beautiful his houseguest is, and sets the shirt and linens on the dresser.

“In case you want them,” he says. “I’ll make breakfast in the morning, but, uh… you can leave whenever you want, really. Just let me know if you need anything, or…”

It’s so easy to trail off when Connor is looking at him the way he is. Markus gestures vaguely, letting the rest of the sentence evaporate, because at this rate he’ll be lucky if he can put together a logical phrase. “You know,” he finishes, awkwardly. His speechwriters—and a sober Simon—would be hanging their heads in shame.

Lucky for him, Connor doesn’t seem to mind his incoherence. He steps forward to smooth a hand over the mattress, rubbing the fabric between his fingers, then says, “Thank you, Markus. I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

“Yeah,” says Markus, softly. “See you in the morning.”

He doesn’t move. Connor rounds the bed, pulling Markus apart with his gaze, and time seems to slow. He looks as if he’s going to take the linens off the dresser, but stops short in front of Markus, who can feel the air in his lungs compress and release with something like anticipation.

Anticipating _what_ , exactly? What does he expect?

 _No, that’s bullshit,_ says the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like North’s. _You know exactly what you expect._

Markus’s thoughts are a maelstrom, even as his body moves ahead of his mind. Connor is closer than ever before, and for once, that’s not something he needs to think about.

They meet each other halfway.

The kiss is a matter of seconds, even though right then, each second is unraveling like a thread around them. Markus isn’t quite heady enough to lose his bearings. When he pulls away, blinking the stars from his vision, Connor leans in briefly and chases after his lips—and then Markus has to kiss him again. His eyelashes flutter when they come together, melting into each other, giving in to something magnetic and inexplicable.

Taking pause for breath is like stirring from a dream. Connor’s hand is resting on Markus’s forearm, and he doesn’t seem particularly eager to move away.

“So,” says Markus, breathlessly. “Breakfast?”

Connor’s eyes crinkle. He pats Markus’s arm a little awkwardly and steps away, but like every other wordless expression of his, the light blush across his face says more than enough.

“Breakfast,” he agrees, and sounds as dumbstruck as Markus feels. At least he’s not the only one. “Goodnight, Markus.”

Markus nods, and doesn’t bother trying to stifle his smile as he turns and opens the door. He steps backwards into the hallway, wondering if it’s normal for the world to feel as lopsided as it does, and immediately bumps into someone standing outside.

“Fuck,” says North.

As if the residual dizziness isn’t enough, Markus almost hits his head on the doorframe. “What are you—?”

“You’re welcome,” is all she says; turns clumsily on her heel, and saunters back down the hallway.

And Markus is left with a _thank you_ idling on his lips, because he owes her more than he’ll ever be able to repay.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @deviantexe and on twitter @stellarlesbian!


End file.
